And I have spoke with them too who would swear They saw you and your own eme in such guise That it cannot be told of in no seemly wise. All our kin ye bring to scandal and shame. Tush, vile progeny, ye be too much to blame, Out of my sight! Ye do mine eyes no good! MARY Lord God, what woe is mine in mood! How doth the blood forsake my body utterly. So vile reproach, such words of ignomy, To hear and suffer, all unmerited! Now, aunt, tell me if ye will make me a bed For this one night? AUNT Ye were me liefer lie, As deep as this roof-tree is high, In the Meuse as bait for all its fish. Be gone, ere you repent your wish. I tremble like a leaf for teen. MARY Ye do me wrong, aunt. AUNT Stay, this cursed quean With vexing me will not be done or quit. Would ye have those fine braids tousled a bit?— Yea, she rouses the maggot in my head. I could bring the devil himself to bed And bind him to the pillow like a doting wight. I be grown so awry with spite, I know not if I stand on head or feet. To them withall that I today meet I shall make answer, wherefor wrathful I am, Even the same answer as the devil giveth his dam. MARY Ah, wretch! now be ye fallen on sorry days. I stand here as one in a maze, And of myself I know not the what or the how; Meseems, I should have run frantic from the town erenow, Mindful nor of knaves nor of thieves. Under the trees I will make me a bed of leaves. I reck not whom I meet, be it fremd or kin, Though the devil came in his own proper skin. To ask no questions thinketh me best. Under this hedge I will sit me down to rest, Yielding myself, for ill or well, To god or all the fiends of hell. ¶ How Mary took leave of her aunt and departed out of Nimmegen. Thus is the young maiden, Mary, departed from her aunt and piteously weeping in sore distress hath betaken her out of the town Nimmegen in the dark of evening, until she is come to a great thick hedge, beneath the which she sat her down in sorrowful mood, weeping and wailing, and oft commending herself to the devil, and to herself sorrowfully saying: Weeping and wailing and mine hands wringing, Calling myself maledight, Be all my solace and none other thing, By cause mine aunt hath done me despite. Is it wrong that I should be in spite That causeless she blamëd me at erst? Nay! Such anger doth on me alight And waxeth in my heart aright, That I sit here in wrathful plight And ever hold myself accurst.